


bet you didn't know someone could love you this much

by LadyAlice101



Series: you understand, i got a plan for us [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Vouyerism, a take down of littlefinger, darkISH jonsa, like they're not my usual soft and tender, theres still a lot of that who am i kidding, though theres still some of that, white walkers? what white walkers?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 19:13:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21379129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAlice101/pseuds/LadyAlice101
Summary: “No, Sansa, I said your name,” he interrupts, eyes opening of their own accord. He watches as realization dawns on her, as her lips part in surprise. “While I was – and she – I called her . . .”//A companion piece to 'bet you didn't know that i was dangerous'.In which Jon accepts a woman to his bed and calls her by his sister's name, and Sansa uses it to her advantage.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Original Female Character(s), Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: you understand, i got a plan for us [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1541059
Comments: 33
Kudos: 338





	bet you didn't know someone could love you this much

**Author's Note:**

> you don't ~have~ to read the first one, this certainly explains the situation well enough, but it's probs pretty fun to read this from littlefinger's pov first. 
> 
> this is a very different jon and sansa to what i usually write, so i'd really love to hear your thoughts on it. 
> 
> enjoy!

The knock on his door makes Jon groan, annoyance brutally flaring up in him again. He knows who’s there. He’s been waiting for Sansa to come for hours now, because she never likes to go to bed without them having resolved whatever argument they’d had that day.

Tonight, however, he doesn’t want to see her. Their fight had been a particularly nasty one, full of barbed words and cruel insults, and Jon regrets more than a few of the things he’d thrown in her face. He can’t help how angry the topic of Littlefinger makes him, and really he should know better than to accuse her of underhanded dealings with the slimy man by now. But she’d been so awful in response, and Jon doesn’t want to see her again for several hours for fear of saying more things that he regrets.

Or perhaps he’d take his frustration out in less helpful and constructive ways, like bearing her onto his bed and . . . He can’t even finish the thought, it’s so shameful.

He’s been having those kinds of fantasies far too often as of late, and he has to put a stop to them.

Jon purses his lips and stands to make his way to the door, resolving to just have the conversation she wants to have. They’ll argue about this again, inevitably, but for now they can just put it behind them or something –

But it isn’t Sansa standing at the door.

He blinks in surprise at the unknown face before him, her hair as red as the woman he thought was going to be here and pulled back in a braid exactly like hers, too. Her dress is light and silky, and would bare her shoulders if she weren’t draped in a cloak.

Another one of Littlefinger’s whores. Jon would feel insulted by the man’s insistence on sending a new one every other night if he could feel another other than contempt for him.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” the woman murmurs, pulling some of her hair so that it spills over her shoulder and down her breast. His eyes follow the movement, despite his best intentions. _Don’t you dare, Snow, _Jon reprimands himself, flicking his eyes back up to her face. “I wondered if you might enjoy some company?”

His first instinct, of course, is to politely turn her away, as he has done to every other woman he’s been sent. He even opens his mouth to do so, but then she bites her lips and looks down at the floor, and when he can no longer see the brown of her eyes it’s much easier to picture her as Sansa.

_Don’t, _Jon reminds himself. _You went your whole life without before Ygritte, you hardly need it now. _

Except his cock is already twitching in interest, and when she lowers her chin even further to the ground, all he can truly see is Sansa, and he wants this, so, so badly. But he could _never _have Sansa the way he truly desires, and there are so many reasons why that he doesn’t even bother listing them. Sansa is as far out of Jon’s reach as any woman has ever been, and he needs to stop thinking about her like he does.

Will this help, he wonders?

He hasn’t truly made the decision when he silently opens his door wider. A smile flickers across her face, small and secretive, and Jon’s gut twists at the sight. Oh, this is a mistake, he should turn her away now –

A lump forms in his throat as she sweeps past him and into his rooms, and from behind she looks _so _much like Sansa that it’s easy to pretend that it’s his beautiful sister paying him this late night visit. Her red hair spills and curls like Sansa’s does, and she holds her back as straight as Sansa does, and her cloak is the same deep grey as Sansa’s, too.

The woman’s cloak drops to the ground, baring her pale shoulders and arms. Her red hair is stark against the white of her skin, and before he knows what he’s doing, Jon has reached out to wind a lock of it around his finger. He tugs softly, marveling at how she’s managed to make it feel like silk.

He’s never touched Sansa’s hair before, and Jon is struck bone-deep with the need to do so.

_No, _he reminds himself. That’s what this encounter is for: to rid himself of those sinful desires with someone who isn’t a condemnation.

“What’s your name?” Jon asks, trying desperately to ground himself in reality and remind himself that she isn’t his sister.

“Alysanne, Your Grace,” she murmurs, demure and provocative.

Alysanne, he repeats in his mind, desperately trying to make himself remember it.

“But you can call me whatever you like.”

Jon stills behind her, hand dropping from her hair. Does she know, he frets? She’s obviously been sent by Littlefinger; does _he _know?

Instead of being dismayed by his obvious change in disposition, Alysanne steps out of his circle of reach and saunters over to his bed, red hair flowing behind her.

She turns her head slightly back to him, resting her chin on her shoulder and biting her lip. Again, she hides her eyes, and the picture of her is so heady and _confusing _that Jon sways on his feet.

“Take me to bed, brother,” Alysanne commands softly.

A growl rips from Jon’s throat before he can stop it, and he takes three strides over to her.

“Don’t,” he warns, even as he takes the top of her dress and pulls so hard it rips down the middle. “Don’t call me that.”

She moans, a soft little thing, and it goes straight to his cock.

He bets Sansa sounds like that.

Her back now bared to him, Alysanne props her hands on the edge of his bed, bending over so her arse sticks in the air for him.

“What shall I call you, then?” she asks, staying patiently in place as he quickly divests her of the remains of her dress.

“Your Grace will do,” he instructs, fumbling with his breeches.

Gods, he’s half hard already, and it’s so easy to _pretend_ like this, when he can’t see her face at all, when all he can see is her long creamy legs and her red hair.

This is so shameful, Jon thinks, his throat tight. What type of man takes a whore to bed and pictures another woman; and his _sister, _no less?

“Please, Your Grace,” she whispers, her voice high and breathy. “Please, I need you.”

He highly doubts that that’s the case, but she’s a convincing actress. And it feels as though she’s reached into his brain and pulled his fantasies right from his mind; the amount of times he’s imagined Sansa saying those words to him is downright disgraceful.

Jon can smell the oil she’s dipped between her thighs in preparation before she came here, but Jon can’t even be insulted because it has a heady cinnamon scent to it – the scent that always lingers on Sansa’s skin.

For the first time, Jon wonders how Sansa makes herself smell so sweet, and whether or not she’s ever put oil between her legs in order to push her fingers inside herself –

Jon groans, loud and ragged, and fists his cock tightly.

“Please, Your Grace,” Alysanne repeats.

Jon pushes into her without preamble, and proceeds to set a quick and punishing pace. She never asks him to stop or slow down, only encourages him with moans and begs, and so Jon sets one hand on her hip and the other to her hair and fucks her like he can never fuck Sansa.

If Sansa were ever willing, he might take her like this. He can’t imagine she’d ever want him to be as rough as he is now, and if she doesn’t want that then he doesn’t, either. His first time with Sansa would be slow, and gentle, and he’d want to look in her eyes and whisper that he loves her into her mouth.

She’d feel so good, his Sansa, so hot and tight and _wet. _There would never be any need for oil because he would put his mouth on her and make her peak _at least _twice before his cock ever got anywhere near her cunt, and he wants her to be so ready for him she’s practically going mad with the desire of it.

“Yes, Your Grace, fuck me, fuck me harder!”

He wants Sansa to call him _your grace _like this, too. Not all the time, of course, but every now and again, when she’s happy to give the power up to him and let him pretend to be control.

Jon slides his hand from her hip to her shoulder, and tugs her up so that he bury his nose in her hair. She lets him, even turning her head away from him slightly so it’s easier for him to get lost in the red sea of it, and then she arches her back and moves his arm so it circles her slim waist, and as his fingers dig into the soft skin of her stomach, her cunt clenches around him and he gets a faint whiff of cinnamon –

“_Sansa_,” he groans.

“You feel so good Jon, I love your cock so much!”

He can feel his peak quickly approaching, her cunt so warm around him, and he runs his hand through her hair again.

“Yes, Jon, come inside me, I want to feel it, please.”

He grunts and pulls out of her before he can spill there – because he’s far gone, but not _that _far gone – and as his seed paints the insides of her thigh, he pants her name again.

“_Sansa,” _he gasps into her ear, hips stuttering and then finally coming to a stop.

She stays still against him for several long moments, letting him catch his breath. Eventually, however, she gently pries his hands from around her waist and steps out of his reach.

When she turns back around to him, her face is completely blank. Horror dawns on him at the realization of what he just did.

Did he just – her _name _– holy _fuck, _he did not just do what he thinks he did. He couldn’t have – there’s no way he’d be so – so –

Alysanne doesn’t even bother to wipe the evidence of his shame from between her legs when she bends down to pick up the dress he ruined.

Humiliation and regret wash over him like a bucket of ice, and Jon can barely speak around the lump in his throat.

“What – what do I owe you?” he croaks, looking away from her as she dresses.

“Nothing, Your Grace,” Alysanne says, locking her cloak over her shoulders.

He can’t bear to look at her, not after what he just did, what he _said _\- . . .

Alysanne makes her way over to him, and he glances up at the sound of her footsteps. For the first time, he see’s her as _her, _and not just the front that she obviously puts up when she’s on these calls. She looks hesitant, and obviously weary, but more than that she just looks tired.

“I’ll try not to tell him,” Alysanne whispers, glancing over her shoulder at the door.

Jon closes his eyes, and he knows his face is screwing up with regret.

“I’m sorry,” he says, because there isn’t anything else _to _say. If she didn’t know the desires he held before, then she most certainly does now, and he hardly knows why she isn’t storming out of here right this second in order to tell everybody about his disgusting perversion.

He could hardly blame her, after the way he treated her.

“He can be very . . . persuasive,” Alysanne continues, her voice impossibly softer. “I can make no promises.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Jon replies. He’s such a _fucking _idiot. To let her in here, to say Sansa’s name - . . . He’s made some foolish decisions in the past, but this is certainly the worst. He can’t even think about what Littlefinger is going to do with this information.

Alysanne hesitates again, and Jon huffs.

“You can speak freely,” he permits, his tone wry. “I should you think you have the right to say your words, after I disgraced you with mine.”

Alysanne wrings her fingers together, then drops them by her side.

“You’re not the only one to say her name,” she confesses to him. “Most of them do. I’m used to it by now.”

It only makes him feel worse. To know that he’s truly no different to everybody else, to know that there are other men in this castle who sully Sansa’s name with their desires, who disrespect Alysanne this way, makes guilt churn so physically he thinks he’s going to retch.

It must show on his face, and Alysanne rushes to say, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. Excuse me, Your Grace.”

The door closes behind her, and she disappears in the same whirlwind she arrived in.

Jon falls back on his bed, hands covering his face.

What has he done? What has he _done? _

The next morning, Jon feels so sick he can hardly stand to get out of his bed. He’s not slept a wink all night, despite desperately needing the rest, and when the sun starts to peek through his window Jon knows deep in bones that Alysanne will have told Littlefinger everything.

How Jon wants to get his hands around Littlefinger’s throat and squeeze the fucking _life _out of him –

But Jon has no one to blame for this but himself. He’s the one who permit her entry. He’s the one who fucked her. _He’s _the one who said his sister’s _name. _

Jon half expects the entire castle to know what happened when he finally emerges from his room. When he enters the great hall to break his fast, he feels so nervous and skittish that even the sound of a pew scraping as someone stands makes him jump. But no one glances at him, and no whispers follow him, and when Sansa enters and takes her seat beside him she gives him the same small smile she always does.

Jon turns back to his porridge, unable to even meet her eyes.

“Good morning,” she says pointedly, having already spied his odd mood and behavior. She likely thinks it’s left over anger from their argument yesterday. Let her think that, he decides. It’s better than the alternative.

“Morning,” he mumbles around a spoonful of porridge.

“You look terrible,” Sansa notes, picking up her own spoon. Jon glances at her from the corner of his eye, and spies a lock of red hair spilling over her shoulder, the top half of her waves pulled back into a lovely braid. _You’re disgusting, _Jon thinks at himself scornfully, looking back into his bowl. _You don’t even deserve to be in Winterfell, let alone sitting next to her. _“Did you not sleep very well?”

Jon’s spoon clatters back into his bowl as he again gets the distinct feeling he’s going to be sick.

“What’s wrong?” Sansa asks in concern, putting her spoon down so she can rest her hand over his forearm. Jon stares down at it, body numb, as he thinks _don’t touch me, I’ll only ruin you. _“Is this about our argument? Look, I’m sorry about the things I said, I shouldn’t have been so cruel –“

“Don’t worry about it,” Jon interrupts sharply, unable to bear listening to _her _apologize to _him. _

Sansa goes quiet, hands folding in her lap. He feels absolutely wretched as he glances at her, wishing he knew what to say to make this all go away. He shouldn’t have snapped at her, that was mean. It’s not her fault he’s a baseborn bastard with disgusting lustful thoughts.

“I’m sorry, too,” Jon says finally, staring into his bowl. “I’ve not - . . . given you the respect that you . . .”

He swallows harshly, his eyes closing.

“Jon, please,” Sansa says, fear creeping into her voice. She puts her hand on his arm again, and he flinches under her touch. “You’re scaring me. What’s happened?”

His chair echoes through the hall as it scrapes against the ground, and he doesn’t look back as he flees from her gaze.

Sansa finds him down in the crypts.

He’s come to prostrate himself before their father, though to beg for forgiveness or wallow in his guilt he can’t quite be sure yet.

Jon doesn’t get up from his knees as she comes to stand before him, blocking the view of their father from his sorrowful gaze.

Her eyes are hard and weary as she stares down at him, and he wonders what she’s thinking. Has she found out yet? Or is she imagining that his behavior stems from something else? Whatever she’s picturing, Jon’s sure it couldn’t possibly be as terrible as the truth.

“Don’t keep secrets from me,” Sansa commands harshly. “_You _said to _me _that we have to trust each other now.”

How could he ever tell her what’s happened, though? How would he ever admit to her what he did? That he took another woman to his bed and brought shame upon their entire family.

“Tell me, Jon.”

His tongue is dry in his mouth when Sansa kneels in the dirt in front of him. His eyes follow her every move, taking in the way her body mirrors the position that he himself is in.

“I can’t help if you don’t tell me.”

He can plainly see how frustrated she is, how scared, but how does he say these words?

“Did you get a raven from Cersei?” she asks, and Jon mutely shakes his head. He hopes it alleviates her worry, but her faces only pulls down more. “. . . Are you leaving?”

Again, he shakes his head, but then he wonders whether he _should _leave. Hide himself away at the Wall or something, and wait for the end of the world in the isolation he deserves.

“Did you sell me?” Sansa questions darkly, her eyes intense upon his.

“_What?” _he says, the word bursting from his lips as he blinks in surprise. “_Sell _you?”

“To some Lord, or Littlefinger or something,” she explains, lips a thin line.

“No, no, dear gods, _no,” _he reassures, reaching out to take her hand. “I would _never.” _

But then he remembers would he did do, and he drops her hand quickly so he can sit on his own.

“For the love of the gods, Jon, just _tell _me. It can’t be that bad!”

“I don’t want to,” he confesses.

Sansa stands abruptly, dusting her knees of dirt. “Fine,” she bites out. “I see how it is. I’m supposed to trust you and you can’t even return the favour –“

“I did something foolish,” he whispers, ashen faced and trembling. “Something that could cause a lot of trouble for me. For _us_.”

Sansa pauses where she stands and glances back at him, raising a brow.

Jon looks away from her and into the dirt so he has the nerve to say it.

“I accepted one of Baelish’s whores.”

Sansa exhales loudly. “Oh. _Oh.” _

Jon stays quiet, eyes locked on a little pebble half buried in the dirt.

“That _is _foolish,” Sansa allows quietly. She comes before him again, and when she takes a seat across him she’s much slower, much more weary. “It’s hardly worth working yourself up over though Jon. Many men do it.”

_You’re not the only one to say her name, _Alysanne had admitted, and Jon suddenly wonders if Sansa knows Littlefinger has a lookalike whore running about the castle and tempting highborn men into spilling their desires.

“Why are you so upset?” Sansa continues, tilting her head. “You’re young and unmarried, you’re hardly bringing any shame upon a wife. Did you tell her something you shouldn’t have?”

Jon winces, his eyes falling closed.

“You did?” Sansa asks, though it’s hardly a question from how hard her voice is. “Something incriminating?”

He grimaces again, but nods nonetheless.

“For god’s sake Jon, just tell me. I’m tired of this game.”

“I - . . .” He swallows, squeezing his eyes tighter together and wondering how he’d ended up here. “I said your name.”

He confesses it in one big breath, a tumble of words that probably don’t make much sense, but he doesn’t have the courage to repeat it.

Sansa doesn’t say anything for a long moment. “I don’t think it’s news that we have a familiarity with each other, Jon. That’s hardly a –“

“No, Sansa, _I said your name_,” he interrupts, eyes opening of their own accord. He watches as realization dawns on her, as her lips part in surprise. “While I was – and she – I called her . . .”

“Yes, yes, I understand now.”

Jon can’t make out her tone, or read the expression on her face. She isn’t looking at him anymore, instead slightly to the side of his head.

“I haven’t heard it around the castle,” Sansa says finally. “So either she didn’t tell Littlefinger, or he hasn’t told anyone else yet. I can work with that. I’ll need to move quickly, though –“

Jon stands, taking a few heavy steps further into the crypts and turning his back to her.

“It’s unfortunate Jon, but don’t worry, alright? I’ll figure something out.”

“Did you not hear what I said?” he snaps. She goes quiet behind him. “I said that I fucked some woman and called her by _your _name. I pictured _you _while I was – I was –“

She doesn’t say anything for a long time, and he can’t hear her over his panted breathing. She could have left, for all he knows.

“Aye, I heard you,” Sansa replies finally.

“And?” Jon challenges, turning back to her. “What, you don’t care? How can you even stand to _look _at me?”

“What do you want me say, Jon?” Sansa questions, voice hard. “That it frightens me? Because it doesn’t. That it disgusts me? Because it doesn’t. That last night, while you entertained some _whore, _I touched myself to the thought of you? Because I _did.” _

Jon breath stutters in his chest, and then expels on a ragged gasp.

“Don’t – don’t say that,” he mutters, but he can already picture it. He tries to close his eyes, to rid himself of the lie she’s told him, but it just makes the image play on the back of his eyelids: Sansa, legs spread, hair fanned out underneath her back, her head tipped back as she pushed her fingers inside her cunt like he wondered if she does.

“Why?” she asks, that haughty tone about her that she’d used yesterday, when they’d had that _stupid _argument that had started this all. “I hardly think _you’re _in a position to judge me, considering what _you _did last night.”

Jon steps towards her and takes one of her wrists in his grip, his other hand resting atop her shoulder. He stops short of nuzzling into her hair, but only just. They’re almost cheek to cheek now, and Jon has to take a deep, calming breath.

“You can’t say things like that,” he warns her, voice breaking halfway through the sentence and betraying just how wrecked he feels. “Please. You can’t test my strength.”

“Or what?” she asks, voice low and breathless. The hand he doesn’t have caged comes up to fist the edge of his furs, and she tugs him another step closer. His feet shuffle until their toes are pressed together, and Sansa’s lips whisper against his jaw as she speaks again. “Would you take me right here?”

He clenches his jaw and tries to still his wandering hands, but _they just keep moving, _and then both his palms are cupping her neck, his fingertips brushing the hair at her nape.

“I might,” he rasps. “But we can’t. Father –“

“ –is dead,” Sansa interrupts. “We’re all that’s left.”

Sansa turns her head and slants her mouth over his in a rough kiss, all tongue and teeth and hisses and gasps.

“Don’t you ever take her to bed again,” Sansa commands, pulling his bottom lip between her teeth and biting so hard he hisses and tastes blood.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he vows.

The night after, a knock on his door has him on edge. Sansa had told him what to say and do, but he still feels wholly unprepared.

Alysanne stands at the threshold, a blank look on her face and clad in a new, though similar dress.

“Your Grace,” she greets, bowing her head. “May I come in?”

Jon opens his door to let her.

Alysanne immediately reaches for her cloak in an attempt to unclasp it as she sweeps inside. Jon shuts the door, the reaches over to stop her from doing so. She glances up at him questioningly, then slowly lowers her hands.

“I thought you wanted me to?” she asks.

“No, I . . . no. Thank you for – the other night,” Jon clears his throat and stumbles over the words awkwardly, and Alysanne hides her laugh behind her hand. “I shouldn’t have let you in the first time, but there won’t be a second.”

Alysanne’s eyes are too knowing upon him, gentle as they are.

“I’ll take my leave then, Your Grace.”

“No, no,” Jon rushes to say, blocking her exit. She furrows her brow, obviously confused. Jon huffs, trying to reach for the right words. “Look, just stay for an hour or so, and tell him I had a repeat performance. That we – and that I said - . . .”

“_Why?” _she asks, obviously perplexed.

“I won’t ask you lie again after tonight,” Jon says instead. “I’ll turn you away any other night you come.”

“He’ll send me anyway,” Alysanne says immediately. “He watches, you know. From around the corner. He’s watched every time he’s sent someone to your room. He’ll already know you let me in here again tonight.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, because he isn’t sure what else to say. He doesn’t truly know that Alysanne is going to lie for him, even if he highly suspects she will, and he can’t trust her with any more information.

“So I’m just to sit here for a while?” Alysanne asks, wandering over to a chair by the fire.

“If that’s alright,” he says, feeling uneasy for no reason other than it’s odd to have a woman he doesn’t know so casually sit in his chambers.

Alysanne shrugs. “I’d rather be here than with some other man. You treated me much kinder.”

“I treated you terribly,” Jon says, horrified.

“No,” she replies pointedly. “You didn’t. You’re a good man, Jon Snow.”

He doesn’t bother to ask her to call him Your Grace. It feels a bit pointless, now.

“You still say that after what you know of my sins?” he asks instead, slowly coming to take a seat opposite her.

“One sin does not a man make, I’ve found,” Alysanne replies. “Now, tell me, does Lady Stark clasp her hands like, or like this?”

A few days after, Sansa comes to him with a smile on her face.

“What?” Jon asks suspiciously, only growing more weary when she steps towards him and rather forcefully unbuckles his cloak.

“Littlefinger told me today.”

Jon eyes her as she continues undressing him, unsure what she’s about.

When he is divested of his cloak, tunic and undershirt, his chest bared for her pleasure, she finally pauses. Her nails dig into the skin at his hips, and she leans forward to brush her lips over his as she threatens him.

“If you _ever _–“

“I won’t,” he promises, because he already knows what she’s going to say and it’s an easy vow to make. He would never have done it the first time, if he’d had even the slightest inkling that she might share his feelings. “It’s only you, Sansa.”

She nips his bottom lip, then laves over it with her tongue, and Jon is completely at her mercy.

Sansa takes his hand with one of hers, then hikes her skirts up with the other, and guides his fingers to push aside her underthings and slip between her folds. Jon whimpers at the feel of her, wet and hot, and slips a finger inside her cunt.

“He thinks we should be married,” Sansa whispers against his ear, hitching one of her knees up to his waist.

Jon stills, surprised.

“No doubt because he wants me to be your queen so that you could befall an unfortunate accident soon thereafter.”

How hopeless it is, to long for a thing such as Sansa as his wife.

“Do you want me to be your queen?” Sansa asks, tightening her hold around his wrist and guiding him to move again. “Your wife?”

“More than anything,” Jon admits, reveling in the way her back arches when he brushes his thumb over her nub.

“Even more than my cunt?”

Jon groans at her words, his head falling against her shoulder.

“If you were my wife, then I could have your cunt whenever I wanted,” he grunts against her skin, sliding a second finger into her.

Sansa tilts her head back, baring her neck to him, and Jon kisses and sucks against her delicate skin as he works at her.

Before he can bring her to a peak, Sansa lowers her leg and pulls his hand from beneath her dress. Jon whines, a weak, pathetic thing, and repeats the sound when she lowers herself to her knees.

“Say my name, Jon,” Sansa commands, dipping her fingers into the waist of his breeches.

“Sansa,” he whispers, worshipful. He repeats it when she pulls the laces of his breeches loose, and again when they drop to his ankles.

“_Sansa_,” he moans, when her fingers dance up his aching cock.

“Sansa,” he says, when her mouth closes around him and he twines his fingers into her beautiful red hair.

One week later, Bran returns with news that changes Jon’s life forever.

The secret echoes him wherever he goes, his steps whispering a mocking _Targaryen, Targaryen, Targaryen. _

There is but one ray of light cast by the whole affair, and for that reason alone Jon can’t make himself condemn his new name.

If he’d had the restraint to wait _one more week, _perhaps he and Sansa wouldn’t be going to rot for their sins: but he didn’t, and they are, and he finds himself glad that Sansa can comfort him in all kinds of ways.

In all kinds of places, too.

Learning her body has been one of the greatest joys of his life, and whether she wants him to be hard and rough, or slow and sweet, or on his knees and supping at her cunt, or on his back so she can ride him, in his bed or against the wall, Jon loves it all.

He loves her, too, and after Bran tells him about his parentage, it’s one of the first things he says to her when he gets her alone. Sansa practically melts against him, and that night he makes love to her under the soft protection of moonlight.

About three weeks later, Sansa comes into his solar when he’s balancing the books and trying to eat a meal quickly.

She greets him with soft kiss upon his lips, then tugs on his hands to make him stand.

“Come with me,” she instructs, already walking him towards the door.

“I have too much work to do,” he replies, forlorn at the thought of passing up the opportunity to spend time with her.

“This is important.”

Jon’s steps stutter for a moment. “Is it time?”

“Yes. He’s getting reckless.”

Jon follows her out of his solar and through the halls, finally leading him out into the godswood. Brienne bars the entrance with a firm nod, and Jon wonders exactly what Sansa has planned.

Sansa stops them before the weirwood, then turns to face him.

“He’ll be here soon,” Sansa says, a coy smile on her face. “Want to have some fun before he arrives?”

“Are you expecting him to watch?” Jon questions, his eyes narrowed at her.

“Yes,” she replies plainly. “Does that bother you?”

Jon pushes her back against the weirwood, his blood pumping hot and frenzied all of a sudden.

“Not in the slightest,” he replies truthfully, and bites down on her lip.

The next few minutes pass in a complete haze. One moment, they’re kissing fiercely, and the next her legs are wrapped around his waist, her skirts pushed to her hips as he pounds into her.

Dimly, he’s aware of where they are and what they’re doing. Perhaps to the gods they aren’t brother and sister any more, but he’s still taking her so obscenely in the most holy of places, against the most sacred of things.

He can’t bring himself to care much, however, when Sansa clenches about his cock just so, her back riding up the tree as he fucks her so hard the lower branches shake. Maybe there’s something wrong with him, to love this so much, but maybe there isn’t. Maybe this was the way they were always going to end up: with her begging him for more, and him instructing her to come for her brother.

Sansa falls apart around him, her cheeks pink and mouth parted, and Jon follows after, his hips having set such a punishing pace that sweat dampens his brow despite the deep chill.

“I hope he saw,” Jon whispers, dragging his teeth over her pulse. “I hope he saw me fuck you like that, hope he saw you peak and scream my name. I want him to know that you will _never _be his.”

“Never,” Sansa agrees. “I love you.”

“I love you,” he replies, nosing at her jaw.

Sansa stills in his arms, suddenly, and her voice is slightly louder this time.

“You’ll give me his head, won’t you?”

A smirk plays on Jon’s lips as he finally lowers Sansa to the ground, pulling out of her and letting her skirts fall back to the snow covered ground.

“Nothing could stop me. Petyr Baelish is as good as dead already.”

“I agree,” Sansa says, smiling, and then she leans in to kiss him.

She pulls away just as suddenly, fingers tightening in the fur around his shoulders.

“Ghost!” Sansa’s musical voice calls out.

A growl rips through the clearing, and then the sound of someone falling to the ground follows.

“What do you think he saw?” Jon asks, reaching down to pull his breeches back up. He pulls a few pieces of bark from her hair and straightens her dress, and then she fixes him up as well, running her thumb over his lip.

“Something he’ll wish he hadn’t.”

Jon follows Sansa through the clearing and towards the noises of Ghost and Baelish.

When they come across them, Jon can’t help but smirk. Littlefinger lays on his back in the snow, Ghost’s paws pressed firmly to his chest as the direwolf growls, his muzzle pulled back and exposing his large teeth.

“Sansa!” Littlefinger calls when he catches sight of them. Jon loves the fear in his voice. “Sansa, please, get this beast off me!”

“I see only one beast here, Lord Baelish, and it certainly isn’t Ghost.”

Nonetheless, Sansa sets her voice into a firm and commanding tone, and calls out the name of his direwolf. Ghost growls again, hesitating to follow the command, but he does so eventually, flicking his tail against Littlefinger’s head as he hops off his chest.

Jon settles his hand against Longclaw’s pommel as Littlefinger stands, rubbing his chest.

“Your Grace,” he greets, desperately trying to affect an air of indifference around himself. “My Lady. I was just –“

“No need to lie away your presence, Lord Baelish,” Sansa interrupts smoothly. “I’ll assume it was due to something clever.”

Littlefinger sways where he stands, pale and trembling. Should Jon love this as much as he does? There are probably other things he should regret loving more than this, Jon decides, looking over to Sansa.

If he doesn’t regret her, then he certainly doesn’t regret this.

“I assure you, my lady, this isn’t necessary. I don’t know what you think I saw –“

“I know what you saw,” Sansa says. “I made it so. But you know that now, don’t you?”

Baelish licks his lips, obviously trying to figure out the best way to worm out of this.

“Best not to say anything,” Sansa agrees. “I think it would only get you in trouble.”

Sansa inclines her head to Jon; he takes that as his cue to drop a heavy hand on Littlefinger’s shoulder, roughly shoving him back towards the entrance of the godswood.

Littlefinger barely struggles under Jon’s guide, obviously in a state of shock. The man has obviously never had to think on his feet before and struggles to come up with something to say now.

When they come across Brienne, she looks over the three of them appreciatively.

“Are the lords gathered in the hall?” Jon asks Brienne as she seizes Baelish, tying his hands with the rope she’d been prepared with.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Brienne says, looking as satisfied with Littlefinger’s capture as Jon feels.

Still, Baelish says nothing, just remains strikingly pale.

Despite Littlefinger’s ongoing silence, Jon knows he needs to prepare for the moment in which the man inevitably defends himself.

The time comes when Brienne deposits Baelish in the centre of the great hall, a variety of northern lords and their chosen men lining the walls and waiting for them.

Jon and Sansa take their places at the head of hall, Littlefinger standing before them. He is obviously still floundering, but he licks his lips as he looks around the people gathered.

“Lord Baelish, you stand here accused of murder, and of treason,” Sansa declares. “How do you answer these charges?”

“I deny them,” Baelish answers immediately.

It isn’t a surprising response, of course, but still Jon’s lip curls over his teeth.

“You deny you murdered Lord and Lady Stark’s aunt, Lysa Arryn?” Jon demands, fists clenched over his armrests. “You deny you pushed her through the moon door?”

There’s a shuffle to the side of the room, and Jon’s eyes flick over the Lord Royce, who stands with a stern frown on his face.

“I - . . . it was protect you, Lady Sansa. You knew at the time why I did it, and you-“

“Aye, I knew then like I know now why you did it,” Sansa declares, jaw clenched. “You did it to take power in the Vale, and I lied for you because I feared that you would take rights with me that were never yours.”

Littlefinger blinks again, taking a deep breath.

Sansa interrupts before he can say anything more. “Six years ago, you conspired to murder Jon Arryn. You gave Lysa Tears of Lys to poison him. Do you deny it?”

If Littlefinger were playing pretend at his shock before, this information certainly throws him now. This is knowledge that Bran had shared with them, the same night he’d confessed Jon’s parentage, and likely it is news that would have gone to Baelish’s grave with him if it weren’t for Bran’s power.

“Whatever your aunt might have told you,” Littlefinger starts slowly, obviously trying to parse through this new information, “she was . . . a troubled woman. She –“

“You had our aunt send our parents a letter,” Sansa continues urgently, leaning forward in her chair, “saying that she suspected the Lannisters were behind the murder, when really it was _you. _You orchestrated the conflict between the Starks and Lannisters, do you deny it?”

“Yes I deny it!” Littlefinger retorts. “I know of no such letter, and you have no proof that I do.”

Sansa stands abruptly, fists clenched at her sides. Jon stares up at her, unsure if he should stop her anger from spilling forth. Before he can decide, Sansa spits more charges at Baelish.

“You conspired with Cersei Lannister and Joffrey Baratheon to betray our father in King’s Landing, and his false accusation of treason and subsequent execution was because of _your _actions. Do you _dare _deny that?”

“I dare deny it,” Littlefinger says, his back straight. Jon trembles in his seat in barely contained rage, furious that the man would stand before them and lie so obscenely. But Jon knows the truth, and Baelish has gotten away with the last of his machinations. “And I dare you to find proof of these accusation. But you weren’t there, none of you were. None of you know what happened.”

“You held a knife to his throat,” Bran says from his place at the end of the table, his voice calm and eerie like it always is these days. “You said ‘I did tell you not to trust me’.”

Littlefinger turns to Bran slowly, blinking sluggishly and looking rather in shock. It eases some of Jon’s anger somewhat, to see him so lost.

“Lady Sansa, you are to continue on this path?” Baelish challenges finally, locking his eyes on her. “Because I would warn you against it, considering what I know of _your _crimes.”

Jon shoots to his feet at the same time Sansa calmly folds herself back into her chair.

“Don’t you speak her name,” Jon rages, baring his teeth.

“A poor choice of words, _Your Grace,” _Baelish mocks, smirking. Jon will wipe that expression from the man’s face before this day is through. “As I know the truth of how _you _speak her name.”

For a long moment, Jon is so angry he can’t speak.

“What games are you playing?” Lord Cerwyn asks warily from the side of the room. “You have no place to speak lies this day, Lord Baelish.”

“I speak no lies,” Littlefinger declares. “Your _King _has engaged in a vile incestuous relationship with his half-sister.”

“That’s enough,” Jon snaps, hand slamming down on the table before him. “You would slander Lady Stark in such a way?”

But the occupants of the hall are murmuring amongst themselves, a nervous energy starting to build up.

“It’s hardly slander if it’s the truth,” Littlefinger taunts him. And then, to the room, “I learnt the truth of this matter nigh on a moon ago, when your honourable King accepted a whore to his room –“

“Even if that were true,” Sansa interrupts, finger running over her bottom lip as she scans the crowd, “I hardly see how his acceptance of one of your whores proves true such an outrageous lie.”

The Lords start to murmur again, shooting confused looks up to the high table. Jon swallows, wondering what they see when they look upon the two of them.

“I have proof!” Littlefinger claims, for the first time tugging at his restraints. “One of my girls, she’ll tell you. Your King took her to bed and said the Lady Stark’s name while he laid with her.”

The hall is filled with further disquiet.

“You would listen to this liar?” Jon asks, glaring down at the man, despite the fear that starts to simmer in his gut. Because, of course, Littlefinger – for once in his miserable life – is telling the truth in all it’s brutal glory.

“Perhaps we should bring the woman forward, Your Grace,” Lord Hornwood suggests uneasily. “To dispel any rumours that might form because of Littlefinger. I have no doubt that they’re untrue, of course, but - . . . just to be sure that nothing unsavoury spreads.”

Jon purses his lips. He can’t help but wonder what Alysanne would say, if brought here.

“Aye,” Sansa agrees readily, standing up beside him. “Bring her here.”

They’re not left waiting long. Alysanne enters behind two guards, and again murmurs fill the hall as people catch sight of her. He wonders how many of them recognize her from their own late night encounters.

Jon turns to watch Sansa, to try and glean insight into what she’s thinking.

There’s very little playing on Sansa’s face as she keenly watches Alysanne enter. “She really does look like me,” Sansa comments.

Jon doesn’t reply, very sure that anything he says will get him into trouble.

Alysanne shoots Littlefinger a wary glance, then comes to a stop in the centre of the room, just to the side of the man.

Sansa stands from where she’s taken her seat beside him, and makes her way to Alysanne.

“What’s your name?” Sansa asks.

“Alysanne, my lady.”

Sansa hums. “A pretty name. You know, when Lord Baelish took me to the Vale, he made me pretend to be his bastard daughter. He would tell me all the ways he’d keep me safe, and one of those was to change my name. He made me call myself Alayne Stone, his bastard daughter.”

“Did he?” Alysanne asks, her voice hard. “I did not know that, my lady.”

“Not many do,” Sansa confesses. “He made me do all sorts of terrible things during my time there, things I never wanted to do. I imagine he’s made you do the same, Alysanne.”

Alysanne doesn’t say anything, obviously unsure what she should and should not say while in Littlefinger’s presence.

“We’ve brought you here today because, in his attempt to thwart his own execution, Lord Baelish has said some disreputable things about our King. The Lords and I hope that you will be able to share the truth with us.”

“Of course, my lady,” Alysanne says, a smile playing around her lips. Jon is struck, suddenly, with the realization that Sansa has already spoken with her. “What is it that concerns you?”

“Lord Baelish accused King Jon of taking you to his bed and, well . . . This is a rather indelicate matter I’m afraid.”

“Please, my lady, you won’t offend me.”

Sansa smiles, and Jon knows that she likes her. He rather likes her, too. She reminds him of Arya.

“He said that the King took you to bed, and called you by my name while he did so.”

Horror spreads across Alysanne’s face, the perfect actress that she is.

“He did no such thing, my lady,” Alysanne lies, looking troubled by the mere thought.

“King Jon never said my name while in your embrace?” Sansa questions further, while Littlefinger sputters where he stands.

“No, my lady.”

“Did the King take you to bed at all?” Sansa asks, a perfect amount of incredulity in her voice. If Jon didn’t know the truth, then he’d think her disbelief to be true.

“No, my lady.”

Sansa looks like very satisfied with the answer, and gives a short nod to Alysanne.

“Is there anything else you’d like to add, Alysanne?”

Alysanne looks around the hall, eyes falling on Baelish for only a second, and then flicking up to Jon. He wonders if she knows what has transpired between he and Sansa since she first came to his rooms. Surely she would not give such a false testimony if she did.

Her gaze leaves him, and then travels around the room again, stopping on several different Lords as she does.

“Only that I would happily point out those men in this hall who have done the very thing Lord Baelish claims from our King.”

Absolute silence descends over the hall. It’s uncomfortable for everyone, and even Sansa looks slightly put out by the news. Jon, too, feels sick.

“I don’t think that will be necessary, Alysanne,” Sansa says, and Jon can see a crack in her armour as she nervously looks over the men gathered here.

Lord Hornwood steps forward again, looking slightly woozy. Jon narrows his eyes at him. Is _he _one of the men who have done that?

“I think the woman has provided clear enough evidence, Your Grace. We should lay this matter to rest and not speak of it again.”

“I agree,” Jon declares, eager to have this over with, and stands from his seat. “Thank you for you time, Alysanne.”

Sansa leans over to Alysanne and whispers something in her ear, and then she returns to his side while Alysanne leaves the hall quickly.

“With that settled, and barring any objections from anybody else –“ He pauses, waiting, but no one speaks, “- I hereby set Lord Petyr Baelish for execution for his previous crimes against my family, and his current ones against the Crown.”

“It’s the truth!” Baelish interjects again, this time looking feverish and startled. “They are having an affair, I’ve seen it with my own eyes –“

“That’s quite enough, my Lord,” Sansa says cooling, eyes narrowed at him.

“ – I was just in the godswood, and I saw them –“

“Your words are insult to our honour, and you would dare speak them in our home?”

“ – and he had her against that blasted tree –“

“I don’t know how else to make it clear that you are delusional, and a liar.”

“ – you can stand there and deny it? –“

“Yes,” Sansa says sharply. “I deny it.”

Baelish goes still. Jon would laugh, if he could. How frustrating it must be, to have someone deny the truth you have so clearly seen, Jon muses.

“ – fucking _whore_,” Baelish swears, and Jon’s mirth drains from him immediately.

He rises to his feet, unsheathing the gold-hilted dagger Bran had gifted him this morning.

“_For the trial,” _Bran had said vaguely just after the sun had risen. “_Littlefinger will like the irony of it, I think.” _

Baelish’s eyes are locked on it as Jon approaches.

“I would thank you for your lessons, Lord Baelish,” Sansa says from behind him, and Jon sees the exact moment Littlefinger realizes he’s going to die. “But I’m afraid you’ve disgraced yourself with your lies.”

Jon doesn’t falter; in one smooth stroke he pulls the blade from one ear to the other, splitting Baelish’s skin and setting free the blood in his neck. Jon turns his back on the man, and doesn’t even bother to watch as Baelish drops to his knees and dies.

Sansa does, however, and she stays seated and staring at the red on the floor long after the body has been moved and the hall cleared.

“They won’t forget this,” Sansa says finally. “More than a few were convinced by him, I think.”

“You did well,” Jon says, instead of commenting on that. People love to gossip and spread sordid rumours; even if they weren’t convinced, Jon has no doubt that by the evening everyone will know what Littlefinger said.

“We should tell them about your parentage tomorrow,” Sansa decides, standing. “The lords will likely come to us and suggest a marriage in order to protect my honour.”

“And you would be okay with that?” Jon wonders, biting his lip as he reaches out to take her hand and play with her fingers. “Marrying me on their suggestion?”

“Oh, Jon,” Sansa laughs slightly, cupping his jaw. “Don’t you see? I orchestrated this entire thing. I’ve been planning this since you confessed the truth to me in the crypts. If the Lord’s suggest it – _when _they suggest it – it will only be because I have made it so.”

Jon blinks, then catches her around her waist. “Alright, you dreadfully smart, wicked woman. _I _shall ask you to marry me. Would you?”

Sansa smiles, and kisses him. “Yes,” she says simply, “I would.”

Jon narrows his eyes at her. “You knew I’d ask, didn’t you?”

Sansa laughs, and kisses him again, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Yes,” she admits, smiling. “I did.”


End file.
